don't go, the night's not over
by makapedia
Summary: Either she owns up to it or she doesn't. And either way he will be fine with it, he tells himself; even if Ahiru wakes up and decides the mortification is too great, he will still be her friend.


sequel to 'and i press you to the pages of my heart'. youuuu should probably read that one first for context but i suppose it's not necessary. anyway here's some self indulgent smut

* * *

Fakir figures it could go one of two ways.

Either Ahiru works up the nerve to face him or she decides the blunder was too horrifying to recover from and instead goes into hiding. Usually, he thinks he can read her pretty well - she's always worn her heart on her sleeve, and though it makes her impossibly emotional, it also makes her an open book. And, well, Fakir's always been a bit of a bookworm. It's not typically hard to read between Ahiru's lines - but she'd still managed to blindside him last night, and so now he doesn't know what to believe anymore.

Either she owns up to it or she doesn't. And either way he will be fine with it, he tells himself; even if Ahiru wakes up and decides the mortification is too great, he will still be her friend.

He pours his coffee and drinks it black. Winces, then parts the curtains, and wills himself to stare directly into the morning sun. Maybe his eyes will melt out of his face. Maybe he'll be lucky, and his brain will simmer, too, and _he_ won't have to face the music either.

Fakir doesn't consider himself an overly emotional person. It's not that he doesn't have feelings, because he does, certainly - he thinks of the jealousy that'd stirred in his gut, the first time Mytho had kissed Rue, and of the way he feels significantly lighter, when Ahiru smiles tucks her wild hair behind her ear - but it's probably still not ideal in a partner. Not a partner for someone like her, anyway. She has this impossible way about her, headstrong but embarrassed, bright but clumsy and bumbling, and it's equally impossible for him not to want to fall into step with her.

She's magnetizing. Dangerously so. He has to keep himself in check. Has to remind himself that, with a heart as big as hers, she'd want someone comparable. Ahiru should want someone with just as much love in their heart. Someone who cried at YouTube cat videos and saved snails from their unfortunate demise on the freshly-rained upon sidewalk.

Except she didn't. Or drunk her didn't. And it's messing with him.

Fakir doesn't get his hopes up. He downs the rest of his coffee in one go and shuts himself into his office.

.

**[ are you home? ]**

**[ Yes. ]**

**[ … can i come over ]**

**[ maybe ]**

**[ it's okay you can say no ]**

**[ My door's always open. ]**

**[ hhhhhh ]**

**[ okay! see you soonish ]**

.

"I understand if you don't want to talk to me," Ahiru blurts, as soon as he opens the door, "or, like, even _see _me, but I thought it over and I don't want to leave you feeling like I'm some kind of drunk floozy, so-"

"Ahiru." She squirms beneath his stare, messy braid, skinny shoulders, freckled nose. "Take a breath. Slow down."

Instead of a soothing breath she nearly wheezes. Fakir reaches to grab her shoulders and steady her, but thinks better of it - does she want to be touched? - and instead grips the door frame around her like a tool. He grimaces. She scrubs at her face and he tries not to stare too intently at her bitten nails.

"... I'm sorry," she finally manages, muffled behind the palms of her hands. "I'm not very good at… _confessing things,_ I guess. I really didn't mean to get that drunk, but the drinks were good, and Mytho just kept pouring them…"

She squirms again. Despite himself, Fakir tightens his grip on the doorframe. More than anything, he wants to smooth away the lines of stress around her eyes, wants to hold her face in his hands and feel the heat of her blushing cheeks - but that's a daydream for another time, and Ahiru finally manages to allow a breath to cleanse her. As she exhales, that tense nick in her shoulders finally loosens, and Fakir finds himself drooping where he stands, shifting to lean against the doorway instead of looming over her like some sort of helicopter parent.

"... You don't have to apologize. I know it wasn't entirely your fault."

"But it _was _my idea," she admits, wincing. "Things got a little out of hand, but- um. Thank you. For not letting me break my neck."

He's not sure he should be thanked for such. He'd resisted, but it'd been purely motivated by basic human decency - it wasn't knightly, to not take advantage of his drunken crush. Fakir hardly thinks he should be rewarded and commended for such.

"You were drunk," he says, then pivots. "Do you want something to drink?"

He can almost see the green creeping through her rosy cheeks. "I don't think I want any more rum-"

"I mean coffee," he says placatingly. "Or some water."

.

Ahiru downs a tall glass of water and then runs her finger along the rim of the glass. She sits, knees pressed together, on his couch, and if his mind was a little more creative, he could certainly run away with this - Ahiru, delightfully rumpled, blushing, on his couch. Ahiru, with her bare thighs, socks pulled up to her knees, sneaking nervous glances at him through her smudged lashes.

Fakir doesn't sit next to her. He folds his arms over his chest instead and says, "Is there anything else you wanted to say?"

It's like she's sunburned. Leaning forward, she places the empty glass onto the coffee table and instead presses her hands to her lap. She has freckles everywhere, he thinks, distractedly - they must spread from her nose to her knees.

He wonders, inappropriately, if they cover the entire expanse of her skin. If there's a place on her body that isn't speckled with constellations.

Maybe he's the one who needed that glass of water.

"... No," she says in a tiny voice.

Fakir exhales through his nose. "No?"

"... No, well." Ahiru balls up her fists instead and glances up at him. "I was drunk, um, but that doesn't mean I didn't mean what I said? If that's okay?"

He could laugh. "Don't ask me permission to have feelings, you-"

"I don't want to inconvenience you! You have a lot going on with your life, with, like, writing deadlines and other work and dealing with Mytho - I don't want you to feel like you have to worry about dealing with my feelings, too." And she bows her head, as if she's indebted to him or something, and Fakir's blood burns. Still, she trudges on, brows furrowed stubbornly, as she digs her nails into her knees. "Because my feelings are _my_ feelings! I shouldn't have forced them on you like that, it was really selfish, and, um-"

She is literally the least selfish person he knows. Fakir shakes his head and begins to round the coffee table, closer to her. She doesn't shy away; instead, she looks up and faces him head-on, even as her blushing cheeks darken in color.

"... I don't want you to feel obligated to return them," she says, finally. Lip trembling.

Is she crying? "Why are you crying?"

She waves her hand frantically, then scrubs at her face again. "I'm not crying!"

There are tears streaming down her face. She is crying, whether she wants to admit it or not. Fakir drops to kneel beside her, instead of sitting on the couch with her, and takes her tiny wrists into his hands. Her skin's warm, and he can hook his fingers so effortlessly all the way around. How can somebody so loving be contained in such a tiny frame?

She trembles in his grip. Fakir stares stupidly at her skinny fingers, so smattered with freckles, too. "Why are you crying?"

"I don't want you to feel obligated to return them!" she blurts tearfully. She snivels and sniffles and is somehow not any less lovely for it. "But. But _I like you,_ and I don't- I don't know what I'll do if you decide I'm too creepy or something-"

_Creepy._ How someone so emotionally intelligent could possess such a glaring blindspot is beyond him. "That's not what I'm thinking at all. Don't put words into my mouth before you've given me the chance to respond."

She blinks. Such wide blue eyes, filled with thick, selfless tears - he could get lost for a spell there, in the endless depths of her ocean eyes. There are worlds within her not yet discovered, insight otherwise untapped, and Fakir wonders, not for the first time, what he ever did to deserve standing in her presence. Such a pretty girl, on a shallow, physical level - but such a pretty, pretty girl on an emotional level, too. A heart too big for her body. How she can carry such guilt with her for having feelings is beyond him.

Well. Maybe it's not beyond him. Fakir knows a thing or two about guilt. Knows even more about resenting himself for it.

"Do you want more water?"

Ahiru shakes her head. Sniffles.

"... How's your head?"

Her wrists struggle in his grasp for a moment. He allows her to reach to her face and wipe at her damp cheeks. "It's okay. I took painkillers."

But she still looks so defeated, and he can't help himself from dropping her wrist long enough to brush her tears from her eyes.

The effect is instantaneous. She inhales, a quick, shallow breath, and her lashes flutter, and then her eyes flicker to his, surprised. He supposes he can't blame her. Of all things, _gentle _is not typically the word to come to mind when it comes to him. It's no matter; even if it takes his whole life, he'll work on changing that expectation. He is capable of gentleness, just the same as her. _Especially_ when it comes to her.

"Is that everything, then?"

Ahiru presses her hand to her cheek. Suspiciously close to where he'd brushed her tear away. "... You're not upset with me?"

"I'd be a real tool if I was upset with you for what you said while you were drunk."

She bites her lower lip. He can't pretend like he doesn't zero in on the motion like a hawk. He is careful but not immune, and he would give almost anything, he thinks, to be the one biting her.

"... It's not like that," she says slowly, blinking, big blues swimming with that same something he'd seen in her last night. "I was drunk, but I, um, I still - I still meant most of it."

He doesn't say anything.

Her blush is so deep he thinks it must hurt. To be so blatantly emotional, to be so open with her feelings like that, to express so fearlessly - it must hurt. It must be exhausting.

"I mean. I meant all of it." Her shoulders scrunch up and she shrugs, a little shamefully. "I do think you're s… sexy and mysterious and stuff, but it's not like that's the only thing I care about. I don't want you to think it was just like, I took a few drinks and then thought oh my god, Fakir's a babe, or anything like that- I've thought it for a long time, you know, and I've liked you for even longer-"

Ahiru gasps and covers her mouth with both of her hands. Has the audacity to blush and squeak, as if this is somehow more embarrassing than admitting she wanted him to pin her wrists down to his mattress.

"... Are you… finished," he asks slowly, carefully measured. He swallows. Tries not to notice the away Ahiru watches his throat as he does so. With the way his blood is burning in his veins, he cannot afford to fixate on the way she watches _him_.

She nods. There's still a wrinkle between her brows, so tight with guilt, and Fakir wants to kiss her, right there.

He doesn't. "I'm going to talk now, okay?" Fakir doesn't wait for her to nod. He continues kneeling there in front of her and takes her wrists back into his hands. To be so honest with her will be like stripping himself naked before a crowd - and if he's not allowed to hide behind his walls, then she's not allowed to hide behind her hands, either. "I don't think you're creepy. And I don't think you're weird, either."

"Y-"

"Okay, I think you're weird. But not for wanting sex."

Ahiru squeaks and flaps her hands. "Don't say it like that!"

"Is that _not _what you wanted last night?"

He didn't think she could blush any harder. Ah, well. He's pretty sure he's blushing now too, and so what if they're two peas in a pod. There are far worse fates, Fakir thinks, than sharing sentiments with anyone with a heart like hers.

"I did! I do!" Ahiru flails for a moment, before scrubbing at her hair, running her fingers through her messy bangs. "Um, but that's not- that's not all I-"

A finger pressed to her lips shuts her up. Interesting. "I think you're weird for a lot of reasons. And wanting sex _with me_ is one of them," he admits, and Ahiru very nearly wilts right there in front of him. "But not because I don't want you to. Do you understand?"

Her brows furrow and she shakes her head.

Right. Well, he can do this the hard way, too. Words should be his strong suit; he's a writer, after all. "I didn't turn you down last night because I don't want you. I turned you down last night because you were smashed and only lowlifes take advantage of drunk girls."

"I wasn't-"

"You grabbed my _ass_."

"It's-" He presses his finger tighter to her lips and she goes quiet. What a peculiar little button. He quite likes it, actually.

But he can't dwell on it. "Everyone knows that I feel the same way. You might be the only person blind enough not to see it." His voice doesn't even sound like his voice. Who is this man, admitting to such affection? Who is this man, owning up to his feelings - and to her face, no less? He cannot afford to waste the required time wondering where the confidence is coming from - but it's probably because he is in the face of her blatant attraction, and her trainwreck honesty. "... I would've much rather you just came to me like this in the first place. You don't need to drink yourself stupid for my sake-"

"It was for _my sake,_ you big martyr-!"

He tries pressing his finger back to her lips. Ahiru seems to be fed up with playing submissive, and bites him all the way down to his first knuckle - and he has only half a moment to wonder about the inside of her mouth and the warmth of her throat before he's tugging his finger back, and then sweet, doe-eyed Ahiru is on the hunt.

.

She has her hands in his hair before he can make sense of the situation. She summons the strength of a thousand kittens and yanks him closer to her, and then there's no more wondering about what her mouth is like.

Warm. A little sweet, too - she tastes saccharine, like she'd chased her ibuprofen with some skittles - but he doesn't have the time to dwell on the delicious way her fingers had threaded through his hair, or the softness of her pliant lips, because Ahiru retreats just as quickly as she'd striked.

Such a fearful, impulsive peck. It has Fakir licking his own lips, still buzzing.

"No, I didn't mean- sorry, that wasn't what I meant to do-"

But the seal's already been broken. Fakir sits on his knees and takes her face in his hands instead, and then _he's_ kissing _her_ with everything he has. If he can't get her to understand with his words - if he can't get through her thick, selfless skull with sensibilities - then he will have to resort to her methods. And if this is the way she wants to converse, well. She hasn't had anything to drink today, and Fakir has no qualms about kissing Ahiru silly.

She gasps and Fakir takes the chance to test the waters. Her lip is soft and sweet, and feels oddly good beneath his teeth - then she's humming and melting delightfully into him, and reason flies out the window.

Whatever she wants, after all. That'd been the compromise. If she came to him with a clear head and attempted to talk it out, then he'd give in to her wiles. And what wiles they are; she's curiously docile when he's kissing her, and it makes him wonder just how long Ahiru's been waiting for this. How long has she been keyed up?

It's hard to say how it happens, but Fakir tumbles down on top of her - maybe she pulled, or he gave a push, or maybe it was a bit of both - but it doesn't matter either way. With a knee pressed between her legs, Ahiru seems to have no complaints, and allows him to kiss her with a hunger he normally keeps tucked away. Careful, he tells himself, he had to tread carefully — even if she had seemingly no boundaries, there are still things he cannot do with her — it's not like he was prepared to sleep with anyone in the next couple of days, so—

"What do you want," he manages, breaking away.

She breathes heavily, chest heaving, and god, the pull of her eyes is maddening. "Anything," she pants, grasping the sleeves of his button up between her fingers, pulling, _pulling_. "_Everything, _I don't care—"

But he wants to give her what she _wants. _Fakir busies himself with kissing her swan neck, so that he won't be tempted by that devastating look in her eyes.

Of course there are things he wants to do with her. To her. _For_ her. He tries to manage it, to think more like she does, but he's guilty of liking things a certain way. Still. Today it's not about him — and if he's being honest, he'd always sort of thought he'd take her out to dinner a few times before climbing into bed with her. Wasn't that what girls like Ahiru wanted? Romance? To be courted and showered in flowers and affection and promises, before getting down and dirty?

Except it doesn't _feel _dirty. Sure, she'd come on to him, and sure, last night she'd basically offered herself up on a silver platter, but kissing her like this — _touching her _like this — doesn't feel very _dirty_ at all.

And even if it did, whatever, he thinks, sliding a palm warmly over her stomach. Whatever. It's what she wants, and he's happy to give it.

"Can I touch you," he mutters, lips pressed to the crook of her neck.

Ahiru hums. Shivers so delightfully when he presses the pad of his tongue to that pretty dip of her skin, between neck and collarbone. He has to remind himself to go slow.

"Ahiru."

"Yes," she sighs, trembling a little. It's very cute, the way her blush paints beneath the straps of her dress, the way she bites her lip. He can feel her pulse, the thumping of her hummingbird heart, and nothing has ever been more inspiring, he thinks.

Go slow, go slow. This matters like nothing else ever has. The muscles in her stomach work as his hand slips lower, as he caresses down the slender curve of her hip, slips his fingers into the warm press of her bare thighs. Such forbidden fruit, this forbidden nirvana, and he can't help but kissing her again, warm and unbidden, just to keep himself from saying something embarrassing. She melts further beneath him, fingers clenched around the fabric of his button up, and _go slow, _he thinks again.

But she's so easily persuaded. It's hard for him to think about it without wanting to pin her thighs to the couch and burying his face right where it matters. There's zero resistance, when he nudges her legs apart with a hand - and the only reaction he gets is a sigh against his lips and the way Ahiru presses her burning cheek to his, as he glances down to watch what he's doing.

It's impossibly warm there, between her legs, and _go slow _is a demanding mantra. He _wants, _and that want wars chaotically with the equally burning desire to give Ahiru what she deserves - slow, sweet, thoughtful romance.

He lets out a breath. It's close to her ear, and she trembles against him, whimpering. "Ahh, _um-_"

If she moans he might just die. Fakir adventures further, inspired, achingly, by the desire threatening to burn clear through his chest. It's his heart, perhaps, malnourished and abandoned, and something not unlike anxiety thrums in his veins, as his fingers dip beneath simple, no-nonsense cotton - he's never done this with a girl before. He doesn't like feeling unprepared, like he's riding into battle without a sword - but Ahiru's the only girl who's ever mattered, and as he leans back to watch her face, her lashes flutter.

It's like drowning. He might choke. She's so warm and soft, and a single finger slips so easily into her; there's no resistance, and the shapes her mouth makes as she sighs his name will be forever burned in his memory.

Even just one finger seems to be too much for her to handle. Ahiru's hand leaves him to clamp over her mouth as she whimpers, brows furrowed, and the ache in his blood rages.

He can't help it. The cage of his chest is hanging wide open, and his heart thunders there, free for the first time in god knows how long. "Is that good," he mutters, holding her hips in one hand, touching her intimately with the other.

"Fakii-ir," she gasps, despite herself, he notices, as he brushes his thumb over her clit.

What a power trip. He can control her breath. Can control the twitching of her thighs, the arch of her spine, crease of her brows. He cradles her higher, slipping his hand further beneath her skirt, pressing it up and around her waist. It's mesmerizing, watching the way the muscles in her stomach work and clench as he touches her so deeply, as he crooks a finger and hears her whine.

Fakir can't swallow his heart. Can't lock the cage again. "Do you want more?"

She hides her face in her hands and nods rapidly. But that's no good - doesn't she know he wants to see her blushing cheeks? He wants to drown in the blue of her eyes, a helpless sailor, victim of her siren's call.

"I can't hear you," he finds himself saying.

"_Fakir._"

But he's drunk off of this. Can't she tell? Ahiru needs to ask for it. She'd wanted this, she'd reached into the dark of his heart and set him free. She'd been selfish, barely, for once in her life, and she'd wanted, and - and he wants more of it. "Tell me you want more," he says, then, cupping her hips again, as she attempts to wriggle her way out of her skin. "Ahiru."

She keens as he slips another finger within her. His fingers are long and skinny, but it's clear that even just two are more than she'd ever expected to have. And she likes it, he thinks, unable to keep from glancing between the place where she's pink and warm and _his to touch,_ suddenly, to her face, smooshed beneath her trembling hands, freckles abound. She _likes _it.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she cries, muffled beneath her palms, "I want _everything,_ I'm sorry-"

"Don't _apologize._" Stupid. He loves her. "I want to give you what you want."

She peeks at him through the cracks of her fingers. Her eyes are misty, and he wonders why that's what makes her cry - why giving her something she wants glues her own heart back together. It's almost disturbing.

He can't think about it right now. Her teary eyes are the furthest thing from what he wants. Fakir works on shimmying her panties down her slim hips, down her mile-long legs, over her knees - he catches a dainty ankle in one hand and presses a kiss there, warm and sure, and she _squeaks_. Ahiru keeps her eyes on him, peeking through her fingers, as he presses a trail of kisses down her leg, against the sensitive curve of her knee, the warm, soft flush of her thigh. Where leg meets body, just shy of where he'd been touching her before.

The breath she takes in is unmistakably sharp. It cuts right through him, guts him in the back, punctures his hollow chest. "F-Fakir, I, um, don't- don't _stare,_ I'm not-!"

For a writer, words have never been his strong suit. Or maybe spoken word has never been his forte. For him, actions have always been easier, have always been more effective at conveying what he feels - and he knows he could be honest with her, right here and now, and confess everything. He could tell her how much he adores her, and how he admires her strength, and her bravery - the way she cries for him, and everyone, and so rarely herself - and surely, he could tell her how beautiful he finds her, soft skin and freckled thighs and long, messy hair. But it's hard, putting those feelings into words, and instead, he finds himself pressing his palm flat against her trembling hips and kissing her, slow and sweet, between her legs.

It's like all of the breath leaves her lungs at once. If he felt gutted before, then now it's like he's just been skewered alive. But what a way to go, he thinks, flattening his tongue against her - watching, brows raised, as Ahiru all but melts beneath him, reaching to bury her hands in his hair, instead of hiding her face.

"Fffhh!" She can't get the word out. Can't form the shapes and sounds of his name. Fakir sucks on her clit and her hips jump beneath his hand. Ahiru tosses her head back and forth and _keens _beneath his tongue. "Fh- ah!"

He never thought he'd be the one to take her breath away.

He's harder than he's ever dared to be in her presence. It doesn't matter. Ahiru finds it in her to wrap her legs around his face and it's the only place he's ever wanted to be. She could choke him out with those chicken legs and he'd die fulfilled. It's almost voyeuristic, the pleasure he derives from watching her lose herself - and he wants her to find that dramatic end that she's chasing so diligently. She's pretty, even with her features all scrunched up, even as her hips attempt to knock him out cold.

She's _pretty_. She tastes like a home he never thought he'd be welcomed to. Tastes like sunshine and love - and god, he's never wanted anything so bad in his life, but to bring her to orgasm.

And it's cute, the way shy, clumsy Ahiru's trying to ride his face. Cute, the way she's too far gone to feel embarrassed for her feelings. It's the way it should be. He wants her to take this from him, wants her to use him, for once, for her happily ever after.

She makes him so mushy. Ugh.

It doesn't take long for her to break like a promise. Ahiru's so keyed up it makes him wonder how long she's been waiting for this - and it makes him wonder what she'd been up to before she'd finally found the nerve to face the music. No matter. He wouldn't shame her for her desires - rather, he'd like to spend his time like this, rewarding her for being so honest about her own feelings, for expressing interest, for sighing his name and coming beneath his tongue, melting into jelly limbs around his face, stuffing her fist to her face and whimpering, _whimpering._

_Go slow,_ he tells himself again, as his heart absolutely rages in his chest. Ahiru breathes so deeply her entire body seems to move with her, and Fakir kisses his way up to her neck, her ear.

"Was that satisfactory?" he asks, unable to keep himself from nibbling on the lobe of her ear.

"_Satisfactory_," she chuffs, sliding a hand down his neck, over his chest. Her fingers brush against the buttons of his shirt and very nearly drive him mad, right then and there. "Oh my _god, _that was- I never thought you'd-"

He can't stop touching her. Ahiru's still trying to catch her breath and he's selfishly pressing kisses under her ear, along the crook of her neck. Does she realize she's unleashed a monster? That she's let the caged beast run free?

"... It was very good," she admits, then, a little shyly. "_You're_ very good."

It's sweet.

She pops the top button of his shirt and he clutches her hips tighter in his hands.

"I can do it again, if you want," he says. Anything more - his blood catches flame just thinking about it, but - it wouldn't be safe, and he hadn't been prepared to have sex with anyone, and if he can just keep pleasuring her with his mouth or his hands, Fakir thinks it would be fine.

Ahiru bites her lip. "But what about you?"

What _about _him. He's happy to just lick her stupid. "Hm?"

"Don't you-" she flusters, for a moment, as he bites at her neck, instead. "D-Don't you, um- want me to return the favor?"

"It wasn't a favor."

"No, I know that, but!" _But nothing, _he thinks lazily, slipping a hand to graze the crease of her thighs again. Ahiru's breath hitches. "But! I don't- I want _you_ to feel good too."

"I feel _very_ good," Fakir admits.

"Better," she says stubbornly, squirming against him - a warm, bare thigh brushes against the tent in his slacks and _his _breath catches instead. "You're always so composed and calm and- and I want you to have a good time, too! I don't just want you to do whatever I want to me because you feel bad for me or-"

"That's not even a little bit what this is about," he says, still alternating merrily from biting her ear to sucking and kissing on her neck. What he really wants is her mouth (and her _tongue, _he thinks, a bit perversely) but knows she wouldn't be able to communicate, should he occupy her lips, so he keeps himself at bay here, instead.

"I _want_ what you want."

"And I want what you want," he mirrors, circling her clit with his thumb again. She goes a little tense against him, and even from this angle, he can still see her bite her lip, can see the way her teeth press into the pink swell of her mouth. "I'm not doing this because I feel like I have to."

"Nh!" She moans and squirms, takes his face into her hands and manhandles him, makes him look her in the eyes as she says, very urgently, "I want you inside of me!"

The webbing under his tongue is kind of sore from licking her so enthusiastically, but. "I'll do it again," he promises, nudging her legs apart with his slow, ginger strokes.

"No!" Her face is so red it nearly blurs her freckles. "N-No, I want- I want _you_ inside of me," she admits, and swallows so thickly he thinks she might take his soul with her.

Something short circuits in the back of his head. It's not that he didn't consider it - of course he did, he _loves_ her, and she's been so enthusiastically willing for him to take what he wants from her that the thought crossed his mind, briefly, but. _But._

"You're blushing!" she gasps, far too gleefully.

Fakir tries to scowl. "Look in the mirror."

Ahiru wraps her arms around his neck and tugs him closer, brushes his forehead against hers and sighs, far too happily, for someone asking to be dicked down. He doesn't get her. She waffles so freely between embarrassed and excited, the blushing, fizzling virgin and the eager, lovelorn pixie that it catches him off guard. For fuck's sake, she can't even say the word penis without blushing like a schoolgirl and giggling nervously, and yet here she is, looking at him like he's the freshly-risen sun and she's been waiting forever for the night to end.

"We can't," he says, finally, after getting lost in her eyes for a spell.

She's got her legs around him too, now, and even through the fabric of his pants, she's maddeningly warm. "Whyyyy," she whines, carding her hands through his hair. She yanks the elastic out and runs her fingers through his locks almost dreamily.

"Can't," he grits out.

"Do you not want to?" she asks, as if this possibility has just now dawned upon her, eyes wide as saucers. "I- ooh, I didn't mean to-!"

"Of course I want to," he spits out, and she blushes again, as if that even makes a little bit of sense. "I just don't… have anything."

She blinks. Squirms her hips and rubs up against his tenting interest in her. Ahiru twirls her fingers along the hair on the back of his neck and mumbles, shyly, "It _feels _like you have a lot to me."

Jesus _Christ._ "I don't have any _condoms,_ you twerp."

She catches him off guard with a kiss. It's a moment of weakness, but she's so enthusiastic with her affection, and he's a bit greedy sometimes, so he melts into her, unable to help himself. It's mind numbing, the way she feels beneath him, just something he never thought he'd get to have. He wants to crush himself to her, wants to hold her face in his hands, too, and make her understand the depth of his feelings. Wants to take a page out of her book and lay it all on the table, make his intentions clear - but he is a coward, now and forever, seemingly, and busies himself with holding her hips in his hands and thrusting against her slowly, gradually, with no intention of unbuckling his belt.

Her tongue is the sweetest distraction. He wonders if Ahiru knows she wields a dangerous weapon, wonders if she knows the power she holds over him.

Probably not. She doesn't tend to think very much of herself. Underestimates herself to a worrying degree.

God, does he want to get her off again. It's not fair.

"Sorry," he mutters, burying his face in the crook of her neck instead. Even the smell of her shampoo is arousing, dammit.

"For _what,_" Ahiru cooes, still allowing him to maneuver her, even with her ankles linked around his hips.

"I wasn't prepared."

"... I was," she admits, in a tiny voice.

His hips jerk to a stop. She whines against him and claws at his back, and tries to hide her face in the couch cushions as he leans back to squint at her.

"... You were… _prepared,_" he says slowly, incredulously.

Her blushing face is simultaneously adorable and stupidly attractive. He wants to lick the heat right from her face and bury himself between her thighs and probably die there. "I was prepared for last night! So!"

Fakir finds himself swallowing. He tries not to think about the way she turns to watch him like a hawk. "... So."

"So I... still… have condoms in my purse?"

He might just die there. Ah, well. He can't think of a better way to go. He stumbles back, limbs numb and fuzzy with arousal - because all he really wants is to bury himself in her and feel his bones turn to liquid, and she's a damn magnet, with the way she keeps looking at him - but one of them has to be sensible. He walks on borrowed legs, mindlessly, over to the table, where she'd discarded her things before downing that glass of water, and peeks in, and sure enough - she's got a whole damn box of them.

Prepared isn't even the half of it. There's a bottle of lube in there too, right next to her bag of sour gummy worms.

"... And you didn't bring ibuprofen with you." He could laugh.

Ahiru sits up and shrugs bashfully. She looks up at him through her lashes and sways him effortlessly. The entire purse comes with him, as he pulls her to her feet and leads her by the wrist down the hall.

If it's going to happen, it's not going to be on his couch, for goodness sake. "You're sure about this-"

"Of course I am!" she squeaks, stumbling after him, her strides much shorter, her legs considerably more jelly. And, well. She did just sort of ride his face like ten minutes ago. Poor thing probably doesn't have her land legs yet and was still blissfully floating on cloud nine.

It'll be fine. With the way he's feeling, she won't have a reason to go anywhere for a couple of hours anyway. He'll serve her dinner in bed if he has to.


End file.
